De Ce Monde Secret de l’ Amelie Americaine

Here is a glimpse of my glitzy Saturday night in New York City. There was a bottle of wine, a couple of rented movies, a box of moist towelettes, and thirty pairs of shoes of all varieties and persuasions, strewn across my living room floor. La vérité was far less scandalous than you think.

I was actually engaged in some rather neurotic spring cleaning. I wiped down each pair, removing dirt and scuff marks, and I intend to give them away to a local women’s shelter. It eases my conscience to know that I’m giving back perfectly good shoes to someone who might really need them.

~~And I feel slightly less guilty for purchasing, not one, not two, but five pairs of high priced shoes, with well bred names, like Tod, Salvador, and Jimmy.~~

The real truth is I don’t wear them. I have outgrown these old friends, and they’re ready to move on someone who’ll appreciate them more. Why is our relationship unsalvageable? Most of them were bought on the cheap, and give me enormous, passive-aggressive blisters. The kind than turn pinkie toes red, with puffy skin bumps ready to burst. I have spent years literally bleeding for cheap fashion. I blamed it on wide feet inherited from my father. The time had come. Cheap shoes and I simple needed to part ways.

I hit a low point three weeks ago while I laid in my podiatrist’s office, and had four needles of anesthesia shot into my big toe so she could pry off, a rather grotesque, infected ingrown toenail. Between my expletives and the contorted expressions on my face, I finally had a revelation that allowed me great serenity. I can now skip the lame justification that purchasing expensive shoes is a rite of passage into womanhood, and go straight to the medical excuse of, “But my doctor said I need them.”

The shoes listed below, are like souvenirs of another lifetime, a different person, someone who wasn’t quite a woman, but wasn’t a girl either. I had a delayed adolescents. I called being in my twenties. Here are a few of the good, the bad, and the really ugly:

Plastic jellies: Yes, they still make these relics from the 80’s, and I found a pair in the dollar store in Jersey City.

Black thongs with fake rhinestones and a pair of beige flats with a little brown flowers on the end of a Velcro strap: Oh I was so cute! That’s the problem. I was too cute for any guy to ask me out without feeling like he was molesting his little sister.

Indian slippers made from sequins: Bought from a street vendor. Feel like I should be clicking my heels together and chanting, “There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home. A la the film “The Wizard of Oz”

Fuchsia pumps: I was in a deep deep depression when I bought these. Fuchsia is a happy color right? I thought they would inspire me to travel to tropical locations and do the tango with mysterious strangers. The truth is I felt guilted into the purchase by a pushy salesgirl. I took out my resentment on the shoes, and never worn them.

Classic black pumps, with weird triangular-heel and ankle strap: Purchased on my lunch break six years ago when I was an assistant buyer, from my boss’s favorite clothing retailer. I thought I’d impress her with my good taste. I was laid off along with 100 other employees, six weeks later. I told you I’ve bled for fashion.